


A Study in Dreams

by Mew (airshipper)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Dreams, Implied Sexual Content, Mentions of Death, mild graphic murder, more characters to be added with content, there should be an archive warning for overuse of commas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airshipper/pseuds/Mew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a person dreams can tell a lot about them. How they dream might just tell more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Waking Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment, I haven't really written anything for a long while and I very much wanted to try something for this fandom... Do not expect plot, these are miniature character studies in the form of dreams. I am hoping to get a grip on these characters through this exercise.
> 
> Basic disclaimers apply, not beta read?

When Will dreams, which is often and not always when he is asleep, he dreams of horror, of blood and death and pain and a lone, dark stag leading him forward into the dark abyss of his own mind. In his dreams he is a predator, a monster, a taker of life and light. He is never in control of his dreams, but he is always conscious of them. The sickening realism of them is one he knows well, his senses on fire with the input he can manage without a single nudge from the outside world. He feels it like the chilled air is truly biting his skin with razor fangs, hears the sharp, hollow echo of hooves as they meet ground and drum through his skull, tastes the sweat of fear, or excitement, or sheer desperation on his tongue, smells the copper of blood he has spilled burning him raw. He is a pawn to his own imaginings, never free, but never bound. The world shifts around him, under him, melding into one nightmare after another before his body finally allows him to break free of his own mind.

Will Graham wakes often from his dreams, bed drenched in sweat, shaking and hardly able to breathe. His eyes flick back and forth, drinking in his surroundings like a lifeline, gulping down breaths of air that always feel stale to his tongue. He is searching for a sign that he’s awoken from a nightmare he knows, deep down, he will never escape.

### The waking nightmare

_The air is dry and brittle, like dust is entering his lungs and bloodstream, powering his body instead of oxygen. It is painful but not worth more than a passing note. Vision fades in and out, his surroundings gripping him before shying away. He can’t tell if it’s his eyes or his mind keeping him so far from focus. He doesn't care._

_Leaves crunch beneath his feet, crisp and delicate and dying with the last hints of green being devoured by a blood red. He looks down at them, disoriented, and has to wonder when he went outside at all. Autumn wind makes gooseflesh rise on his arms and legs, and he takes another shaky breath before holding himself in a feeble attempt to stave off the chill. Behind him, almost drifting, is his house. It is a haze of light in the distance, carried by clouds of fog. He wets his lips as he watches it for a moment, feeling centered as his home floats away in his mind’s eye._

_In front of him, the leaves crunch again this time under a foot not his own. He rips his eyes from the beautiful sight to regard the disruption, feeling a chill too deep to be caused by the air in his bones. Gleaming red eyes peer back at him through the mist of early, early morning. They are wide, unfeeling, but attentive. They watch only him, and he finds he can not meet their stare._

_With an unsteady exhale, he squares his shoulders and watches as the stag moves. His head tilts, and so does the stag’s. Curiosity bubbles up in him where fear usually made it’s home. Slowly, as the creature turned from him towards the thick woods from whence it came, Will takes a cautious step forward. The stag moves fluidly through the air like a phantom, no resistance, no hesitation. But it’s hooves meet solidly with the ground at every step, grinding blood red leaves into dirt before lifting the heavy foot for another step. He feels a small jealousy for it’s grace, wishes he could touch the ground with such assuredness too._

_He follows without real thought, nothing indicating why they are here, what he is doing. He follows it into the misted air like a parcel on a string. Everything ached as he moved, but nothing resisted. The bitter scent of rotting meat reached his nose from somewhere ahead._

_It was on his tongue when he swallowed, making his stomach turn and his pale limbs tremble. There was a light ahead, the flash of a camera and the murmur of voices slowly rising until it boomed in his ears. No one saw the stag, no one looked up from the crime scene before him to glance his way. He glanced back, feeling lost and uncertain again. His clothing rustled in the wind, fingers digging unkindly into the flesh of his arms._

_His house was nowhere in sight, only the open door of his station wagon staring back at him from whence he came._

_When he turned back, the stag was still there, standing proud and dangerous beside Jack, and his latest victim-to-be._

_He was dizzy, lightheaded and full of too much uncertainty to speak, but he did not need to. Not yet. He did not know if this was a dream, a hallucination, a sleep deprived fantasy, but he took in his surroundings still, stopping short of the mutilated form on the ground to close his eyes._

_In the chamber of his mind, black and endless, a pendulum swung. Time crept backwards yet again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... that is the easiest one down. I have the preamble of most of these done, but the dreams themselves take longer so I thought I'd push myself to actually finish something by posting it in the real world...
> 
> Future chapters I have figured out are Alana Bloom, Hannibal Lecter, Jack Crawford, Beverly Katz and Freddie Lounds. If anyone would like to comment, it will be a heartening motivation, should anyone have requests or ideas, I can't promise anything but I would love to hear them.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this!


	2. The Mind's Palace

When Hannibal dreams, rare as it is, it is always a lucid dream. He is practical, pragmatic. It is with ease that he registers the inaccuracy of it all, with graceful mastery he bends and twists the space into an arena for his depraved visions. Often, he will imagine what Will might dream about, try to piece together the horrific fantasies in gentle strokes across the canvas of his mind, sometimes guiding him in visible presence towards his truer nature, coaxing him into his own becoming. Sometimes, his dreams are so bare of the man, you might not know the obsession was real. In these dreams he would walk, strolling through the world as if walking just above the ground. Each step would ripple the lives of those he designed to grant his attentions. The silence would be deafening in it’s entirety, but it was not. Lost- or perhaps settled too firmly in the unreality that is his dream.

Hannibal Lecter wakes each day in the same manner, calmly, eyes blinking open in the acute awareness he carries with him at all times. It is impossible to tell if he has dreamed, the visions transient at best, not worth taking back with him into the waking world.

###  The Mind's Palace 

_He’s standing in the dark, lost and wild when Hannibal finds him. His breath is uneven and punctuated by soft noises like he can’t contain his voice from pure despair, though they both know it is not despair he feels now. Far from it. There is a shine in the moonlight, silvery with just a hint of something else, something with a tint towards red on his hands, dappled over his cheek._

_It’s a beautiful sight, a fine ornament for his wall strung together with beads of human bone painted dark and rich with blood._

_Not his blood, no. It was not yet time- not for a while- for his blood to spill. This was the blood of someone innocent, someone… replaceable. It was clear, when his eyes flicked over, saw the doctor standing calmly there, this was his first slaughter, the first time he’d heard the squeal of a pig’s pain in their final moments._

_He drank it in like a fine wine, not sipping too quickly, letting the taste settle in the back of his mouth sweet and perfect by scent alone before he had his first try. It was a new flavor, one he’d been waiting for, one he was working for with every day that passed._

_Will Graham was going to be the prize of his collection, wings spread like shredded sanity from the remains of his human shell, already hollowed out by an expertly guided hand. He would sculpt the man’s emergence, watch every step of the way until he reached just this moment, saw the look in his eyes that was not all fear, not all horror, but something more visceral, something derived from the sheer pleasure he would feel when he took a life because he wanted to, because he knew in the core of his being it was what he needed to feel alive._

_And how alive he would be._

_Hannibal lecter smirked, stepping forward to circle the shaking man with careful measured steps. He feet made no sound as the touched down, his being higher than the mortal plane. He had already ascended, and with just a shove more, a tweak farther into the dark places Will didn’t know how to escape, he would do so as well._

_There was no stopping the metamorphosis once it had begun, even should Will fight his destiny, he could not escape his nature now. Not now that he’d accepted Hannibal Lecter as a guiding light into his own darkness. It was all about time now, about patience and watching and waiting as pushing just a little closer to the edge._

_Hannibal loved to imagine how he would look in those moments, when he was broken, not shattered, but torn apart by his own becoming. A creature of beauty contorted from something almost too weak to survive. His prized project, the finest wine he would ever taste._

_“Did you ever imagine blood would look so glorious in the moonlight, Will?” He murmured, still circling like the lion, ready to strike at any moment, ready to rip the last shreds of humanity from him the moment he saw the perfect moment for his agony to shine through while it slipped away. He allowed no answer, not interested in what his mind would have Will say. Dreams were trivial, a distraction. He longed to hear the real words, see the real face, experience the reality of this moment with the living breathing incarnation of everything Hannibal wished he could capture in the cage of his fingers and palms. He would let it play out when Will was really before him, streaked with the blood of someone the man thought he held dear, with real need for him, real wonder at what he had become, real levity in the darkness he’d fought so hard not to sink into, despite his unique and captivating ability to breathe freely even when immersed in it’s depths._

_He would not taint such a moment of satisfaction and triumph with a superficial diversion like his own sleep filled musings._

_It was easy for him to tell, despite how long he took to enjoy the man frozen in his moment of transformation, when he began to stir. The dream fading at the edges, his mind clouding before it would clear entirely. He would wake up in a moment._

_Will stared at him, face a torn mixture of excitement at the sensations he would awaken and fear at how much he wanted them, and Hannibal smiled back at him._

_When Hannibal killed him, it was not because the dream was ending, or it was finally ‘time’ for the blood to spill, or because he felt threatened, disappointed, pleased. He killed him because he could. Because he knew with a dark gratification that Will would let him._

_And he woke calmly, none of the dream visible on his perfectly masked face, knowing he could kill him again and again, and the real thing, the creature beyond his own ability to predict, the only real beauty he cared to entertain outside of sleep, would still be there. And he would be waiting for his council like a lost duckling lost from the flock._

_He would do with him whatever he pleased, because Hannibal alone was his paddle against the tide, and he would propel him ever so gently deep, deep into the depths below. And his dear, dear Will would be so enraptured, he wouldn't even think to swim._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hrrfffff my sounding board doesn't like Hannibal so this chapter is posted without any self confidence that comes from his enjoyment (I just didn't show it to him) and thus I am very nervous.
> 
> Persevering, though. Several of the dreams are written now but I need to go over them with said sounding board and edit the fuck out of them... As before, I would love comments, suggestions, requests if anyone has the inclination! And thank you so much for taking the time to read.


	3. The Wildfire of Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie

Freddie’s dreams are wild and unpredictable, a maelstrom of ideas she’d never considered when awake and half formed stories told from the off putting angle of an outsider stepping, rather than looking in. Often her dreams were not her stories, but the stories of those she saw, spoke to, investigated. She should not have been a part of the tales, but she was, drawn in as the story itself begged her to be told, shared, explored. She was an adventurer in someone else’s history, trampling untouched flower beds and uncovering secrets that had remained buried for far too long. She took pleasure in her dreams, sharp eyes dissecting the meaning behind them before they had even ended. She took lessons from them, gave credit to them for her inspirations. If something scared her, she made sure to stay wary of it in the real world outside her safe apartment walls. She enjoyed her work, writing, researching, even angering those around her, but she enjoyed her rest even more.

When Freddie Lounds wakes up, it is with bleary satisfaction, and the makings for a narrative already at the forefront of her thoughts. Her favorite time to write was just after waking up, fingers dancing over keys and smirk fixed on her face. Dreams gave birth to the best ideas, the strangest lenses through which she saw the world.

###  The Wildfire of Thought 

_It started like a normal day, except there was only color in the places she looked for long enough to notice there wasn’t. She woke, she showered, she dressed. It was an off day, a day of rest unless something juicy came up, and nothing could ruin the way her chest thrummed with excitement when she imagined seeing that beautiful lady who owned the temp agency again._

_A lady like that was hard to come by, even for an attractive reporter with a sharp mind and sharper wit. She was going to get a date this time. Whether in work or pleasure, Freddie Lounds never took “No” for an answer. Not really._

_Her name was Wendy, and nothing else mattered until she heard it from those full lips over dinner. Or lunch. Or coffee. She wasn’t really picky, and she wasn’t particularly impatient about it. But persistence would pay off. Her persistence always did, even if it shed a little skin at the edge of the knife sometimes on the job._

_She might have skipped a few steps in her day, maybe fast-forwarded, or forgot to pay attention, because she was outside the beauty’s apartment door, two floors down and a few doors to the side of her own. She was ready, bouncing on the balls of her feet before clicking back onto the points of her heels._

_The cool chill before she touched the doorknob- no knocking, it didn’t come to mind, and so was not necessary in the scape of her mind- warned her just too late that something was amiss. She’d already set her mind in motion, realizing in that moment that this was, in fact, a dream._

_Or more specifically, a nightmare._

_Crime scenes were her forte, and it took no time for her imagination to conjure up something appropriately gruesome for her to lay her eyes on._

_There was no scent, thankfully, though she was sure there would be if she thought too hard about it, but there didn’t need to be to leave her dizzy with her consternation. The blood was practically mist in the air, touching everything, as if showered in fine droplets from some air brush rather than spattered from the body of a woman she’d looked forward to meeting. On the far side of the room, hanging from the wall parallel to the door that framed her, Wendy was suspended._

_The hooks were like those you might buy for fishing, dangerous and sharp, but far too large, holding her by her chest, her arms, one carefully placed to curve through her neck to delicately cradle her chin keeping her head from lolling. Dead eyes, still wet with unshed tears stared right into hers, and she felt her stomach drop with the horror of the vision. The meat of her skin was puckered, bloody mounds distorted by sharp mutilation and cruel consideration. Nothing looked instantly deadly, though she wasn’t exactly an expert in that area she thought she had a good idea. It was a design of sadism, a message scripted in the pain of the victim. She had died slowly, nerves on fire, blood rushing out of her until she faded away. Freddie’s throat worked furiously, but no sound came out, and she struggled there for too long before she realized she was not alone in the room._

_To her right, inside, partly concealed by shadow was a man. His eyes were wide and wild, dancing with pleasure as he lapped up the stricken expression on her face._

_She had forgotten again that this was a dream, the fury mingling with his satisfaction too real, too detestable not to focus on with the whole of her mind. “Do you like it?”_

_His whisper was low and rough, maybe even tentative. He stepped out of the shadows of the blood stained room with the start of a smile curling on his lips. His head tilted just slightly when she stood her ground, eyes boring right into his with fury, disgust, fear. He didn’t seem to mind, smile becoming more defined as he stepped even closer._

_He didn’t stop moving until he was flush against her, clothing well worn and shabby, form untarnished by even a drop of blood. He could leave right now, walk away back to his job and his FBI dogs and no one would even question it, no one would see what he had done. He was immaculate, untouchable and unbelievable._

_“You are one fucked up piece of work, Graham.” She muttered back, her own voice more of a growl than anything. This was out of bounds. This was beyond personal, and she would not let him get away._

_She would not let him move past this door._

_He laughed, rough and harsh and fake, smile contorting into a snarl. “I told you not to piss me off, Freddie.” He responded, hand reaching up from his pocket to brush against her hair, her neck. “I can imagine far worse to do to you, if this message doesn’t stick.”_

_She would have jammed her stiletto right up his ass, if her alarm clock hadn’t wrenched her from sleep at exactly that moment._

_She sighed softly in frustrated relief, wishing she’d had just a moment longer to teach that monster a lesson before she’d been interrupted. This dream was more jarring than her usual, but it was nothing new. She had been positive Will Graham was more than he seemed since she first laid eyes on him from across crime scene tape and underbrush._

_He was dangerous, and she was going to let everyone know, before he got his chance to declare it first with some innocent girl’s blood._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it's not a huge number but thank you so much everyone who has taken the time to read this and for my first kudos!! It's the little things that kinda just make your day feel bouncy.
> 
> I have Alana's done too, but I don't want to post two at the same time it seems weird...? Perhaps in the morning. 
> 
> As always I would love to hear from anyone who feels like sharing ideas opinions or requests, and thank you for taking the time to read this!


	4. Forgotten Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana

Alana’s dreams are many and varied, hardly any remembered past the first breaths after she blinks open her eyes. Some of them are soft, gentle, like she always tries to be, full of warmth, of people, or memories mingling with desires, folding around her in a comforting protection from the heartache that lays beyond their brief respite. But some are hard, sharp, they jab at her sides and crash through her mind, make her heart race instead of rest. Sometimes her imagination will carry her away to places she wishes she would never know. Still full of people, and of memories, these dreams try to piece together a reality she does not want to believe, a vision she can not bring herself to abide. But nightmares are rare, and for the most part her dreams are her castle, a place where she can finally let go of the worries she feels, the thoughts that hold her back. It’s a place she can entertain the possibilities she is too afraid to explore.

Alana Bloom wakes slowly, mind clouded and unclear until light burns at her eyes. She grasps for her dreams, wisps of visions floating through her memory like oil in water, distinct but transparent. She sees fractured shards of her thoughts, but never the whole story.

###  Forgotten Serenity 

_A pitter-patter of light feet on wood, uninterrupted by sounds of breath or life or world outside. The bright faces of boys and a girl, grinning and laughing and stampeding through the house as though it were allowed. These vibrant markers the only signs that the space might be alive. Alana stopped short, breath hitching with a phantom pain she didn't really feel in her ribs as she nursed her cramp. Her grin was the widest of any of them, and it did not fade even when they kept running, disappearing around a corner and out of sight, sound, and mind._

_She looked around then, taking in the plain walls and light paint, the windows shining bright with sun, but nothing beyond them. She was not tall, but not short either. She stood proud, a woman of power even if she chose not to flaunt it. She stepped forward, shaking off the remnants of a little girl like an afterthought as she strode down the hall, curious to see where it would lead._

_The halls were familiar, homey but not messy. A fishing line rested carefully against a bag full of what she could only guess were the equipment one would take with them when fishing. A rug, cushions, dog beds and blankets scattered the floor of the room she entered. There was a fire place, unlit in front of her, and she puzzled at it for a long time before she realized what was odd. Plaster dust choked the air and she coughed awkwardly, smiling at Will as he cleared his throat._

_Even as he explained, it was clear to her there had been no animal. A stab of pity, of worry, of longing gushed forth, and if the feelings weren’t so conflicting she might have done more than let the excuse slide._

_It was only a disorder when it started effecting the way you lived your life._

_Most would consider the destruction of their property a good sign it had pushed into those waters._

_They walked, a blink of an eye later, through wet grass, whether from dew or a previous rain she could not tell, just knew she felt cold and regretful as she spoke to him. Her throat closed up, and she was standing still, staring up into startlingly blue eyes, almost captivating enough to disguise the purplish circles of the sockets that housed them. His lips were parted, and as always, he was not looking back into her eyes, down at her own equally parted lips instead._

_Her hand brushed the railing installed to help students exit the lecture hall, the cool shocking her because temperature had forgotten to exist for a moment while she got lost in those eyes._

_He swallowed, mouth moving, but she couldn’t hear him. It occurred to her, somewhere in the back of her mind that she did know what he was saying, knew the lines she might cross, felt her own chest rise in preparation to speak her own unheard reply. But she didn’t, letting her worry sink instead to the back of her thoughts, then ebb away._

_His arms were warm and his hands were large and his lips were chapped, dry and curious. She knew what a kiss felt like, but not the way his coarse hands felt as they roved over sensitive bare skin, not the way his breath warmed her even as it made her shiver as he panted into her neck. He was shaking, muscled but lighter than he should have been, and she could push him onto his back with a gentle press of her palm._

_Will would follow her silent directions, half smile playing on his lips as he tried to determine if this was real, if she had really let her misgivings fall to the wayside long enough to allow him- them- this moment of warmth, comfort and intimacy._

_She would assure him it was, that she would be his grounding force as long as he was in her arms, that this could work, as long as they both tried, maybe fought a little for it. She would believe it, too._

_Right up until the moment she woke up, sighing and shifting, trying to remember why she felt so warm on such a cool dark morning.  
_


End file.
